


In a Hotel in London (Again)

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [43]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Celebrations, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Giving, Hotels, M/M, Non-Chronological, Post-World War II, tipsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5723965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Your hat is always so straight.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Hotel in London (Again)

Paul lets himself stumble a tiny bit on the last step for the pleasure of feeling Foyle’s hand tighten on his hip. He’s not really that drunk -- barely drunk at all -- but Foyle seems to have come to his own conclusions without actually _asking_ so Paul figures he’s entitled to get what he can out of it. 

Once he’s on the landing, though, he walks ahead of Foyle to the room door, unlocks it while Foyle’s still searching through his pockets, and leans back against the door jamb. ‘Your hat is always so straight.’

Foyle stops fumbling for the key and looks up at him, eyebrows high. ‘What?’

‘I used to think that if we needed a ruler or something,’ Paul goes on, following his train of thought with the looseness of association three glasses of excellent whiskey grants. ‘You know, a straight edge, while we were out on a case…’ He waves a hand airily. ‘Somewhere.’ The thought trails off a little as he looks back at Foyle and can see him looking back. It isn’t often that they can afford to pay this kind of attention to each other in public but the upper hall of the hotel is quiet; there are only four other rooms on this third floor and all the doors are closed.

So Paul relaxes where he is, crosses one ankle over the other, slips his hands into his trouser pockets, and lets himself lean against the jamb, allowing his limbs a looseness he normally saves for behind a safely closed door. He knows he’s hit the right mark when Foyle lifts his chin slightly, his eyes shading to a darker blue, and steps towards him, stopping barely an arm’s length away. 

‘And I wondered if that’s why you always did it,’ Paul says, distracted again by the mathematical straightness of Foyle’s hat.

‘Why I always did what?’ 

Foyle’s too far away so Paul leans forward to reach out and run a finger along the edge of his hatbrim, flicking it back on Foyle’s head. ‘Kept it so straight. So we would always have a ruler.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Foyle catches Paul’s hand, sliding his own warm fingers between Paul’s and dipping his head just briefly to brush his lips over Paul’s fingertips.

The sensation sparks along Paul’s spine and he swallows a sharp indrawn breath, then twists his hand to grab Foyle’s and tug him into their room. It takes a few rather complicated minutes but then they’re on the bed, Foyle’s hat and coat gone along with Paul’s jacket and tie. Paul rocks back on his elbows, stretching himself over the duvet in a deliberate invitation to Foyle to look. He glances up at Foyle who’s leaning back on one hip, his hand planted flat on the bed, smiling at Paul with an open affection that never fails to make something in Paul’s chest catch.

‘So why did you? Ah--’ Paul taps the end of his own nose. ‘--I know.’ He pushes up closer to Foyle, breathing in the scent of soap and warm skin, feeling Foyle lean in slightly towards him so their shoulders almost brush. ‘It was so I’d have to keep watching you to figure it out, isn't it?’

‘Wasn’t it. And, no, it wasn’t.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ Foyle smooths a hand over his hair; it doesn’t make much of a difference, the strands spring back to their normal fluffiness as soon as his hand is gone and it makes Paul want to reach out and trace the curves behind his ear and down the back of his neck. ‘My grandfather was the one who taught me how to wear a hat. He was a small man -- shorter than I am -- and he said he always found it...helpful to be the best-dressed man in the room.’

‘Ah.’ Paul nods and lets himself fall back against the pillows, pulling up his left leg to ease his knee on the mattress. He rubs idly at the muscle of his thigh with the heel of his palm until he realises Foyle’s watching him. Then he doesn’t stop -- but the rasp of his shirt sleeve on his trousers is faintly annoying so he pauses to roll up his cuffs. He pulls the left cufflink free and doubles the cuff back, pushing it up to mid-forearm, and glances up to see that Foyle is still watching, his lower lip slightly drawn in as though he’s biting it.

Paul takes the second cuff a little more slowly, undoing the cufflink one-handed and folding the white cloth back with great care.

‘Ah.’ Foyle stands up and goes over to his coat, rummaging in the pockets for a minute before coming up with a small box which he holds out to Paul. ‘Here.’

Paul sits up, dropping his cufflinks on the bedside table, and takes the box. It’s light in his hands, probably cardboard covered in a cheap black plush, and he looks up at Foyle. ‘What is it?’

‘A present for you. A...celebration.’ Foyle waves a hand at him and leans his forearms on the brass rail at the foot of the bed. ‘In honor of your promotion.’

Paul smiles and he wants it to look genuine and unworried, but that isn’t how he feels. He takes over the Hastings station in one week; Foyle gave in his official resignation a month ago and whatever this _arrangement_ with Hilda Pierce is, it also goes into operation next week. It isn’t that Paul doesn’t trust Hilda -- or Foyle, for that matter, given that the decision was Foyle’s to make -- but the whole thing makes Paul uncomfortable with the same kind of unease that standing on an unsound surface gives him. He’s _fairly_ sure he can balance and walk and that everything will remain more or less as it is -- but he isn’t _entirely_ sure.

They haven’t talked about it much, more about the scheduling than anything else. Foyle will be spending most weeks in London -- possibly most months and Paul never thought he would have this much sympathy with military wives. Except, of course, that military wives have each other and their neighbors and their children and the ability to admit there is someone missing from their lives. And he -- does not. It isn’t as though he and Foyle can talk on the phone regularly or even exchange many letters without an eyebrow going up somewhere and, whoever Hilda Pierce really works for, Paul doesn’t want that kind of scrutiny coming down on them. 

‘Open it,’ Foyle says, his voice soft. ‘It isn’t a jack-in-the-box, I promise.’

Paul shakes his head and nods, trying to dismiss the darkening of his mood. He isn’t psychic; he can’t be sure what’s going to happen a year from now or six months from now. He _can_ push away these useless thoughts so he doesn’t spoil what they have right now. He smiles up at Foyle and pushes the box open. Inside are a set of cufflinks, heavy silver, shining on a bed of cheap satin. ‘Christopher--’ The box may be cheap but the metalwork is not. ‘They’re far too expensive.’ 

Foyle shakes his head, straightening up to shrug out of his waistcoat, dropping it over the brass rail. ‘Not at all. Valentine was able to suggest an excellent jeweler.’

Paul tips them into his hand and puts the box on one side, turning so he can see the links in the light. There’s a tiny wave etched on each one, a very simple curve, and, at the base of each wave, a miniscule glittering chip. He tilts his hand so that the diamonds catch the light. 

‘Well, I could hardly buy you a ring, could I?’

The words ring in Paul’s ears for a minute before he believes he’s really heard them. He’s staring at Foyle before he realises he’s moved and Foyle is looking increasingly uncertain, although Paul knows he is probably the only other person who would be able to tell. 

Diamonds would be-- 

And a ring would mean-- 

He had bought Jane a diamond ring with a tiny stone, probably only a little bigger than those in his hand now. He has no idea what happened to it when she left. With that in mind, he tips the cufflinks carefully back into their box and closes it, putting it on one side under the lamp. 

When he turns back, Foyle has buried his hands in his pockets and, probably unconsciously, is biting on the corner of his lower lip. He looks as though he is waiting for Paul to say something terrible or storm out of the room. Or laugh at him. 

Paul shoves himself along the mattress -- he doesn’t feel confident enough in his concentration to stand up and risk balancing with one sock-clad foot -- and puts his hands on the brass rail that separates them. He watches Foyle for another long moment, sees the crease between his eyebrows deepen, and watches him make an effort to shake his shoulders back and pretend as though he hasn’t adopted the pose of a man waiting for bad news. 

There should be something he can say, some perfect form of words to make it clear-- 

Paul reaches out and twists his fingers into Foyle’s shirtfront, pulling him forward so that the rail of the bed is the only thing separating them. ‘You know I would, don’t you?’ He’s half up on one knee, fumbling to free one hand so he can touch Foyle’s cheek, pull him down to kiss. ‘Tomorrow -- to _night_ if we could, I--’

Foyle lets Paul pull him forward, stumbling against the side of the mattress and putting out a hand to save himself, laughing against Paul’s mouth. Paul would think that he isn’t being taken seriously except Foyle’s hands are quick after Paul’s shirt buttons and laughter turns into a deep gasp when Paul pulls open the fly of Foyle’s trousers and pushes his hand inside. 

**Author's Note:**

> All thanks to my lovely betas, [elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane) and [Kivrin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kivrin).


End file.
